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WORDS AND IMAGES: RACHEL EVA LIM

they do not tell you where 

the trains go, 

how you can throw 

out the lights with a snap,

slip into the frigid dust 

with a solid 

mouthful of spring.

i have carved your name 

in the belly of sunken canyons,

run a wide river beneath

your voice and home.

november is made for cutting teeth

in strange spaces—

to splendor in warm bones

and the knowledge that tonight,

these words will be enough.